


Spring Day

by xErised



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Grimmauld Place, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Hope, KonMari | Marie Kondo's Tidying Method, M/M, Ministry of Magic Employee Harry Potter, Musician Harry Potter, Mutual Pining, Organisational Expert Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Secondary Theme: Book Fair, Song: Spring Day (BTS)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-10-11 04:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xErised/pseuds/xErised
Summary: When Draco is tasked to tidy Grimmauld Place, he's not surprised at the constant need to yell at Potter: "Not that old shirt, what part of 'keeping things that spark joy' are you unable to grasp?!" What he doesn't expect, however, is helping Potter to let go of his past and put both of their ghosts to rest.





	Spring Day

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[22](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16er_sVwwFtbVQxtiFqHRWhw09kwNYhywsB-R48qtVPU/edit#).
> 
> Many thanks to: the mods for organising the fest; to phoenixacid for this lovely, cathartic gem of a prompt; and lastly (but definitely not the least) to Mollie for the brilliant beta. Credits go to Marie Kondo for Draco’s tidying tips and the “spark joy” catchphrase.

* * *

"You fancy him."

It isn't a question.

At Hermione's blunt words, Draco's eyes widen, before he looks away from her. On guard, he puts his cutlery down and dabs his lips with his napkin, thinking fast. His gaze flickers towards a rather fit blond bloke at the next table, and he indicates the stranger with his chin.

"Him? Well, he's not too bad, I suppose," he says, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance.

Hermione turns to give the man a cursory glance, before arching a brow at Draco. She rests her elbows on the edge of the table and leans forward, an impish smile winking on her lips. "Really? That's strange, because I think your type is someone shorter, with black hair, green eyes and glasses. Someone definitely not as suave and well-dressed as _him_," she says, counting Potter's traits off her fingers.

Draco winces at the insinuation, which is... not entirely wrong.

He must look rather cornered, as Hermione's grin widens into a triumphant smirk. She leans back, folds her arms across her chest and seems extremely pleased, as if she has unravelled one of her puzzles in the Department of Mysteries.

_Well, this is it, she’s not going to let this go. _Draco musters a watery half-smile, his voice sounding rather weak as he admits, "What a way to describe your best friend."

"Yes! I knew it!" Hermione says, laughing.

Draco rolls his eyes good-naturedly, allowing his friend to bask in her accurate deduction. After a moment, he sighs and asks, "Was I that obvious?"

Hermione's gleeful grin softens into a smile. "Not to everyone else. I was wondering if you'd ever tell him."

At the tinge of pity in her expression, Draco suddenly feels embarrassed. He looks down at his half-eaten shepherd's pie. If anyone was observant enough to piece together his inconvenient and confusing crush — Salazar, he detests that term, as if he's a lovestruck teenager instead of the twenty-year-old that he is — on Potter, it would be Hermione.

Draco knows that a romance with Potter would never happen, even though they're rather good friends now, two years after the War. Previously, his animosity towards Potter vanished when he returned Draco's wand, and during Potter’s testimony at the Wizengamot, sparing Draco from Azkaban. And then Millicent got together with Neville Longbottom, out of all people, and Draco was dragged to pub nights at the Leaky. Initially, he and Potter tolerated each other’s presence for the sake of Millicent and Longbottom, although he caught Potter hiding a snicker behind his palm whenever Draco drawled out an amusing remark or sardonic joke.

Between the Quidditch games, frequent pub nights, the occasional late outing at Muggle clubs and their shared understanding to carefully leave their history behind, they struck up a shaky friendship, which developed into a proper one, before advancing into a one-sided crush on Draco's part. On some nights, Draco indulges himself with thoughts that Potter wants something more too, what with the random things that Potter mumbles about Draco’s hair or clothes, but going by his slurred speech and alcohol-laced breath, Draco simply chalks it up to too much drink.

It didn't help that Hermione and Weasley had the pesky habit of setting Potter up with blokes and women, and it was even worse when Potter brought his flavour of the month along to the Leaky. Draco could barely contain his jealousy then — ignoring Potter's date and to some extent, Potter. Draco drank more and talked less, ultimately resorting to muttering some flimsy excuse and leaving early.

All this time, Hermione had been quietly observing and putting two and two together.

_Maybe I really was obvious. _Draco sighs, scratching his eyebrow with his thumb. Pansy always said—

At the stray memory of his late best friend, he quickly jams the brakes on his train of thoughts. He's grateful for the distraction when Hermione asks, "How long have you fancied Harry for?"

Draco blinks, and now, it's his turn to raise his eyebrow. "I think that's enough gossip for today."

Hermione pauses, before nodding, backing off. "Fair enough."

They eat in silence, and Draco realises belatedly that Hermione must have had a reason for broaching the topic. _Maybe he confided in her about me? _His heart leaps with a flare of hope, but he extinguishes it at once. _If that's the case, she would've told me. Best not to harbour any expectations. _

Draco polishes off his lunch. He frowns at the troubled look on Hermione's features. "What's wrong?"

She finishes her last morsel of fish, wipes her mouth, and lifts worried eyes up to Draco. "I'm concerned about him."

"You always are," Draco says, looking away from her at his memories of their Hogwarts days. "Always have been.”

Her shoulders sagging, Hermione releases a sigh, long and deep with a reservoir of feeling. "Can you blame me? Ron and I know when he's pretending to be alright. Harry grew up with the burden of protecting others..." She pauses, her voice dropping. "But we would gladly take care of him too, if only he’d let us." She fiddles with her fork, huffing in disappointment. "Kingsley spoke to him again last week, repeating his offer of a transfer to DMLE." 

"A deal he rejected again, I assume."

It's as if Potter is trying to fade into oblivion post-war. After his therapy, he got a job at the Ministry, but not as an Auror. He defied all public prediction and joined the Department of Magical Transportation. The Great Harry Potter, saviour of wizarding Britain, subjected himself to a dead-end, tedious grind of a nine-to-five job authorising Portkeys. He rejected all promotions heaped on him, choosing to remain in his tiny cubicle and pushing papers. It's a safe job, a career with no expectations; a job that Potter settled on after a lifetime’s worth of countless people pinning their hopes and dreams on him.

After the war, the media dubbed Potter as a washed-up war hero who bloomed early and shone as bright and as hopeful as a shooting star, yet was as temporary.

Draco isn't surprised at Potter's choice of career, or lack thereof.

"Some people like a simple life. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with him." Draco hesitates, wary of showing too much. "He's not a child."

Hermione's nostrils flare, and her lips compress into a thin line. It’s a sure sign she's getting annoyed. "You sound like Ron," she remarks, and Draco's upper lip curls in distaste at the comparison. Hermione continues, ignoring him. "Ron says I'm overthinking like usual, but we've been spending less time with Harry lately, with work piling up and preparations for the wedding..." she says, twisting the shiny engagement ring on her finger.

_The both of you aren't his parents, even though I can see he feels left out at times. _"He's not a child," Draco repeats lightly. The truth is, he has noticed things about Potter lately — how the corners of his eyes don't really crinkle as much when he smiles and the faint melancholy weighing him down. He’s leaving pub nights earlier and spending more time alone at home with his guitar. Perhaps Potter is feeling blue because it’s the height of winter, but Draco senses that deep down, something's bothering Potter.

Hermione is about to say something, but the waiter interrupts her to clear their empty plates. She sighs, and then dredges up a bright smile. "How was your consulting session this morning? Was it with the Arthurs? Muggle, if I recall correctly?"

Draco is secretly relieved at the change in topic. He’s still an outsider when it comes to Hogwarts's Golden Trio, so it's strange to give her advice about Potter. He makes a sound of annoyance. "Some of my clients need a proper kick up their arses. Pointlessly clinging to letters and gifts from ex-lovers that mean nothing, and then sobbing into their shirts when sentimental things trigger a landmine of nostalgia and memories long gone. Salazar, I had to make the daughter a cup of tea in her own home!" he exclaims, punctuating his disbelief by widening his eyes.

Hermione shakes her head, chuckling. "You say all of this, but you're more empathetic than you think you are. That's why you're good at what you do." She looks rather proud, and Draco reckons she's someone to thank for the boost in his business from magical folk. After he provided steeply-discounted consulting sessions for the Gryffindors after he made their acquaintances, his reputation gradually recovered. Before that, his income came from Muggles.

"Oh yes, I sent a few parcels of clothes, books and kitchenware from the Arthurs to your charities and some thrift shops," Draco says.

Hermione beams, and then tilts her head. “How's your schedule like for next week?"

Her tone is too casual, the smile playing on her lips too playful, and Draco is immediately suspicious. He knows that scheming expression. "Why?"

"How about you do Harry's place?”

Draco is intrigued at once, but he masks his curiosity. The idea of having permission to snoop around Potter's home and sift through his things to know more about him sounds brilliant. Getting paid for going through people's belongings, telling them what to do with their unwanted things and dispensing life advice at times is right up Draco's alley, which is why he enjoys his job so much.

"Did he mention it in the first place?" he asks, sceptical. "More importantly, will he even be alright with it?"

"He's been saying things are piling up at home, and I suggested you. He considered it for a bit. Do you know his address?"

"Yes, Grimmauld Place. How bad is it? Clothes all over the place, something like that?" In Draco’s year or so of working as a organising consultant, he's probably seen it all.

"It can be messy, yes. He's a single man living alone after all," Hermione says. Her voice lowers to a sad whisper. "He just shares his house with too many ghosts."

An unwelcome and fleeting thought of the neglected Malfoy Manor barges into Draco's mind. He frowns and shakes his head to get rid of the memory.

"I'll talk to Harry and sort out a time and date," Hermione says briskly. She glances at her watch. "Oh, I have to get back for a meeting." She grabs her coat off the back of her chair and puts it on, followed by her other winter things. They look out of the window when a particularly vicious gust of wind howls past them.

Draco sighs at the weather. Yes, it is winter, but it's especially cold this year, the freezing temperatures exacerbated by bone-chilling winds and perpetual snowfall. But he can't complain — he's the busiest during winter because everyone wants a tidy home for the new year, enthusiastic to follow through with new year resolutions of a clean home and the nonsense of a "new year, new me".

"I'll see you at the Leaky tomorrow," Hermione says, standing up and leaving a few pounds on the table.

Draco gets up too, nodding. At pub night tomorrow, they'd be Malfoy and Granger to each other, their acquaintances unaware of their surprising friendship. He watches as Hermione opens the door, a frosty roar of wind blasting into the restaurant. She winds her scarf tighter around her neck and hurries off towards Charing Cross Road.

Draco sits down. At the sight of Hermione's vacated chair, he recalls their developing friendship. There wasn't any specific moment when she turned into _Hermione_. It involved a gradual and wary lowering of their guards. It was a hard pill to swallow, but after his bout of post-war soul-searching, he realised he had indeed been a horrid bully to Hermione. So, he cast his pride aside and apologised to her.

He's sure Hermione is grateful for their friendship too, especially when she has fights with Weasley. Once, Draco gleefully called Weasley a "socially inept dodo bird". Hermione stared at him, before bursting into laughter and wiping her tears away.

Weasley, however, bears no interest for Draco. In fact, the only time when Draco enjoys his company is during an engrossing game of wizard's chess. Otherwise, during those rare times when they're alone, Weasley would run off to Hermione, spouting some lame excuse.

The arrival of the bill tugs Draco away from his thoughts. After paying, he ponders over Hermione's offer about tidying Potter's home. Grimmauld Place is big, but Potter lives alone, which will make things easier. However, he can't forget her words.

_"He just shares his house with too many ghosts." _

Draco is not sure what to make of that.

* * *

A shivering Draco hovers at the entrance of Grimmauld Place, relentless rain pounding on the pavement and harsh winds buffeting his warming charm. It was chilly the moment he emerged from the nearest Apparition point and trekked his way to this Muggle neighbourhood. As melted snow seeps through the soles of his boots, Draco stamps his feet to generate some warmth. He blows hot air into his gloved palms, wisps of winter forming on his breath.

Draco regards the façade of the building with a troubled look, a vortex of abandoned childhood memories threatening to engulf him. _I've moved on from that_. He frowns, wanting to press the buzzer again, but before he can do so, the smooth mahogany door — so different from the old battered door with the serpent knocker — swings open, revealing Potter.

_Kept me waiting long enough_— Draco's irritation wilt on his lips at the sight of Potter and at the warm air emanating from the house. Despite himself, Draco's grumpy mood lifts when Potter flashes him a sheepish smile and steps to the side, allowing him entry.

"Weather's mad recently, yeah?" Potter remarks, closing the door behind him.

Draco nods, putting down his briefcase to take off his winter things and hang them on the coat rack, grateful for the toasty warmth breathing life into his numb extremities. He glances at the spot where the hideous troll leg used to be, but it’s gone. Draco scans his surroundings as Potter leads him inside the house, down the long hallway after the front door. The musty, faded carpets and peeling wallpaper is gone, along with the stern and disapproving portraits of Draco's ancestors. He looks at the wall on the staircase, noting the stark absence of the grotesque shrunken house-elf heads, and most importantly, Walburga Black's portrait.

It's as if Potter has erased the Black history from the face of Grimmauld Place, something that is both unsettling and of relief to Draco.

"You got rid of her," he points out, earning a chuckle from Potter.

"Yeah. One of the first things I did when I moved in. Couldn't stand the screeching."

Nevertheless, Grimmauld Place used to be so cluttered, gloomy and foreboding, so it's refreshing to see what Potter's done with the place — bright paint on the walls and light-coloured furnishings.

"I don't use the rooms upstairs, so they're under a preserving charm," he says, briefly tilting his head back to talk to Draco as they pass the living room. As Draco walks behind Potter, Draco's gaze is drawn to his jeans, admiring the curve of his arse and the backs of his strong thighs. To make matters worse, he’s wearing a black T-shirt which hugs his shoulders in just the right way. 

When Potter stops, Draco blinks rapidly and looks up to see a slow smile spreading across his face. Flustered, Draco pats his hair and rearranges his features into an expression of indifference. They're at the kitchen, and Draco looks at the dirty dishes, containers of ingredients and discarded wrappings lying on the stove and counter.

“Just finished my fry-up,” Potter says, raising his wand to tidy his kitchen.

Draco clears his throat. "Allow me," he offers, thrilled to show off his charm-work. He retrieves his wand and incants a long spell. Potter watches as his dishes sail to the sink and begin washing themselves. Leftover things such as open bags of sausages and bread tuck themselves in clean plastic wrap and float their way back to their original locations, while egg shells and bacon wrappings end up in the bin.

"Much more complicated than your usual tidying spells, but twice as efficient." Draco nods at the soapy dishes. "They'll go to your drying racks when they're finished."

"Wow, thanks. That's a new spell.”

"Yes. Chapter Five of my new book," Draco says proudly.

"Oh yeah, you're writing a book on organising homes."

Their smiles fade as they look at each other. Potter rubs the back of his neck, a sign that he doesn’t know what to say. Draco shifts his weight from foot to foot. An awkward silence stretches. They rarely spend much time alone; their friends are usually around to keep the conversation going and the mood light. _What should I say? _

Draco's gaze falls on a familiar penknife on the counter. He has seen Potter use it before, and it came up in conversation once.

_"Aye, Harry, you can use Sirius's penknife on this. It can open any lock and untie any knot, yeah?" _Finnigan asked at the Leaky as the group was hunched over a strange parcel that was sent to him.

Potter's grin dimmed, and Longbottom hushed Finnigan, who fell silent at once.

Potter must've caught Draco looking, for he quickly grabs the penknife and stows it away in a drawer. Another heartbeat of hesitation, before Potter asks him if he'd like a beer. Draco hesitates — he never drinks on the job, but it might be necessary this time. He agrees, catches the bottle of Hoegaarden tossed his way, and they take a long pull on their drinks. Immediately, the mood lightens, feeling as relaxed as pub nights. They share a brief smile, as if they've got over the awkwardness of a first date. _Yo__u wish_, a sceptical voice rings out in Draco's head.

"So, you're here to sort things out," Potter says, gesturing to his house.

"Yes. Let's get started.” Draco peers out of the kitchen to the living room. "We'll need a large space," he says, indicating the living room. He heads there with purposeful steps, Potter trailing behind.

"Huh? Aren't we doing it room by room?" Potter asks.

"No, that'd take ages. We're going to tidy things by category, and you will evaluate what to keep.” Draco’s gaze travels from the telly, to the coffee table in the middle of the room, and then to the large welcoming sofa. There’s a row of three guitars — two electric and one acoustic — propped along a wall, accompanied by amplifiers and a box of guitar equipment that Draco isn’t familiar with. There’s a well-thumbed photograph album on the sofa — he knows Hagrid gave it to Potter during his first year. When Potter covers the album with a cushion, Draco frowns.

Potter moves as if to shift the table, but Draco sits down on the sofa and places his briefcase nearby. He pats the space beside him. Potter furrows his eyebrows in question, but plops down beside Draco.

"Why do you have need of my services?" Draco asks.

Potter's eyes widen, and he bites his lower lip, as if stopping himself from saying something inappropriate. “Er… because you tidy houses and my house needs tidying?"

Draco blinks at him, waiting for more. Potter continues, "Because it's a big house. Big old house with too much stuff. Old stuff."

Draco recalls Hermione's perceptive remark about Potter living with too many ghosts. He's tempted to ask him about it, but it's too soon for that. "Was this Granger's idea?"

Potter frowns. "No. I said before it'd be nice to have a tidier home, and she brought you up. For some reason, she mentioned you again last week, and I thought, why not? " His jaw hardens, and Draco realises he has stepped on Potter’s toes. "You know, contrary to what some people think, I can actually think for myself."

"Of course. I wasn't implying otherwise," Draco soothes at once, activating his interpersonal skills that he'd picked up in his job. When he was starting out, he was surprised at how defensive and stubborn people can get when they're justifying their tidying decisions.

Potter relaxes and runs his hand through his hair. "I've always wanted to pack, but never got around to it. Or I'd start and get distracted."

This is a familiar refrain of Draco’s clients, and this is when he would firmly point them to the right direction. But what sort of direction is Potter inclined to?

"How would you visualise your ideal home? Your dream lifestyle, perhaps?" Draco asks. "I'm asking this because some people have concrete goals for their living spaces. For example, a lady yesterday told me that she wants to be a goddess of serenity and inspiration, surrounded by beauty, nature and harmony in a Zen home."

Potter stares at him, looking utterly baffled.

"What? Who even talks like that?" he says incredulously. He wrinkles his nose and scratches the side of his face. "Er. Um..."

An excruciatingly long silence ensues. Potter opens and closes his mouth like a fish, grasping at words and looking increasingly perplexed. Finally, he stammers, "I don't wanna be a... a _god_ or anything like that. I just... I just want a neat house," he says rather hopelessly. "That's honestly all that I want."

“Let me make it simpler," Draco says, keeping his tone even; he is unsure of what landmine, if any, he'd step on with his next question. "What makes you happy?"

A dark look passes over Potter's features, and he lets out a thin, reedy laugh. Tension stiffening his shoulders, he jerks his head to the side, shielding his eyes from Draco. "Happy, huh?" Potter remarks, his question rhetorical and his words low.

Draco backs off, his toes curling with discomfort. Usually he'd follow up with _"What is home to you?" _but he reckons that wouldn't make things any better. "Ignore that. What do you like to do when you're home?" 

Potter glances at the table, at a rather crumpled book titled _Guitar Chords_ with Sirius Black's name on the cover. The book has seen better days; it's yellowed with age, complete with dog ears and sticky tags peeking out from some pages.

"I like playing guitar and teaching people how to play," Potter says. "I’m teaching Dean now, in fact. Music calms me when I'm over-thinking things.” He points at the black electric guitar. “That was Sirius’s. He taught me how to play. Started with the Weird Sisters, The Hobgoblins, Bent-Winged Snitches, then to Muggle bands. AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Queen. Sirius was brilliant at it. His mum hated it when he played at home, which made him practise even more." A warm, genuine smile, the proper sort that crinkles the corners of his eyes, blooms on Potter's lips, and Draco's heart lifts. “I can play all the chords and sight-read most tabs now, but sometimes I wish he was still around to write…” Potter trails off, his grin dissolving, the light in his eyes fading away, as if he's talking about something that he could never have again.

Potter snaps himself out of it, his eyes roaming around Grimmauld Place. "I'd like a brighter home. It's alright during summer, but when it's winter, like now..." He gestures to the dreadful snowstorm raging outside. "It's kinda dark, yeah?"

Draco looks at the heavy velvet curtains and the windows, which are too small for a house of this size. He nods.

"Can we start? Or is this therapy all over again?" Potter says, an edge to his voice. His right leg jiggles with suppressed energy, and he’s practically twitching with the desire to get started. _Typical Gryffindor_. Draco knows that Potter wouldn't be an easy client — he's too bloody stubborn and headstrong for his own good, and when you add their messy history and Draco's unrequited feelings into the mix...

Draco pushes away his emotions and replies with action instead; levitating the coffee table to the side of the living room. He gets up from the sofa and sits cross-legged on the carpet in the middle of the room, motioning for Potter to follow suit.

"By getting rid of items that don't bring joy to you, we're going to declutter and organise your home, and hopefully simplify your life in the process," Draco explains. "What we're going to do now is to summon all of your things here — category by category — and you're going to decide what to keep. We shall start with clothes first."

They scoot backwards to make more space in front of them. Enjoying Potter's attention, Draco raises his wand and articulates another one of his nifty spells, this time to summon every single piece of clothing. _This should be fairly painless; Potter doesn't seem to have many clothes. _They wait expectantly for a moment or so.

Nothing happens.

Draco clears his throat and repeats the spell.

An ominous rattling sound begins to echo from the higher levels of Grimmauld Place, increasing in frequency and volume. Both men stare at each other with wide eyes, before lifting their chins and looking up.

"Malfoy..." Potter mutters, his voice low in warning and his hand inching towards his wand.

Everything happens so fast — a series of thudding sounds reverberate throughout the house, as if all the drawers and wardrobes are yanking themselves open and slamming themselves closed. Draco yelps when a door bangs against the wall, followed by other doors following suit. Before they know what's happening, piles of clothes are rocketing towards them from different rooms. They're being pelted by all sorts of clothing — Potter's clothes and centuries-old attire, both male and female, that wouldn't look out of place on Draco's ancestors.

"Have you never tidied this place?" Draco howls in horror, flinging himself to the side and narrowly missing a petticoat to his face.

"No, I chucked everything upstairs! I didn’t know there were so many— look out!" Potter yells when an antique trunk hurtles towards Draco. Potter conjures a shield charm around Draco and pushes him down, throwing himself on him. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for impact. There's a muffled thud as the trunk hits the shield and bounces off of it, landing on the floor and breaking open, its contents spilling out.

Potter squirms on top of Draco as more clothes stream towards them. Draco keeps his eyes shut and his hands to himself as he wills his traitorous body not to react to the situation. _When I said I wanted Potter on top of me, I didn't mean it like this. _

Eventually, the onslaught subsides. Potter bats away the shirts on his back and rolls away from Draco, the blush on his cheeks deepening when Draco arches a brow and removes a pair of red briefs — decorated with golden Snitches — from his chest. They sit up and look in disbelief at the avalanche of clothing and handful of trunks strewn all over the living room. Dust motes float in the air, and the room is redolent with the musty, stale smell of clothes that haven't seen the light of day in ages. 

Draco pats his hair and smooths his palms down his shirt. "In my defence, I haven't tidied such a big house. Something I'd have to take note." He waves his wand, arranging the clothes into piles. With another spell, he separates the old clothes from the modern ones.

"I assume you have no need for clothes that don't belong to you," Draco says. At Potter's nod, Draco opens his briefcase and withdraws a few large bags — embellished with Draco’s initials — with extension charms stitched into them. He tosses said clothes into two bags, spells them closed and vanishes them.

"Where did you send them off to?" Potter asks.

"To Granger's charity. They would sell well at Muggle vintage shops." Draco casts another spell to sort Potter's clothes into sub-categories. He instructs Potter to pick out his rotation of reliable pieces that he wears frequently, putting them into the _keep _pile. Next, Draco grabs a faded, rather stretchy maroon collared shirt off the top of the _not sure _pile.

“Hold each item, but not longer than three minutes, and decide by touch if it sparks joy. If it doesn't, it goes there," Draco says, pointing to another one of his bags.

Potter stares at Draco as if the trunk had knocked him silly. "Touch it to see if it... _sparks joy_? What sort of method is that?"

Despite his incredulity, Potter shrugs and prods the shirt with a finger. "Okay, I want it."

Draco blinks, staring at Potter before spluttering. "That's... that's not how it works!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You have to hold it!" He chucks the shirt into Potter's lap. "Hold it properly, and keep it only if it sparks joy!"

Potter huffs, grabs the shirt with both hands for a moment and then tosses it into the _keep _pile.

"Why does it spark joy?" Draco asks. He's never seen Potter wear it before, and he wonders if it has some sort of sentimental value.

Potter shrugs again, his attention already wandering to the next item on the pile. "It doesn't. I've had it for a long time and I don't wanna throw it away." 

...

Draco doesn't know whether to bang his forehead on his own briefcase in frustration or curl up into a dramatic ball on the floor at harbouring feelings for someone who is so stubborn, infuriating and _dense_, someone who cannot even listen to such _simple instructions_—

"Potter, you absolute arse!" Draco snaps, yanking the shirt off the approved pile and suppressing the urge to whack Potter over the head with it. "It's got to _spark joy_! It has to have some sort of meaning! If not, you should throw it away. You wear the same clothes every time, and you certainly don't wear this. Look at it, just _look at it_," he rants, dangling it in front of Potter's face. "Not only am I a brilliant tidying consultant, I am also extremely stylish, and I can tell you in no uncertain terms that this went out of style seasons ago. The colour does nothing for your eyes and skin tone. This can't look good on anyone, let alone you."

"Really?" Potter rebuts, his eyes shining in challenge. Before Draco can do anything, Potter takes off his glasses and pulls off his T-shirt. At the unexpected sight of a half-naked Potter — Merlin, that chest, those shoulders_ — _Draco chokes out a frankly embarrassing sound.

Potter grins slyly at Draco as he tugs the blasted maroon shirt on. The minute he straightens it, though, Potter frowns. "Yeah, it's way too tight. I should toss it." He takes it off, and Draco appreciates the rare view before Potter wears his black T-shirt.

Draco regains his composure and throws the shirt behind him. The enchanted bag jumps up, catching the discarded item.

"D'you always get this annoyed at your clients?" Potter asks, peering at Draco.

Draco swallows an internal sob of exasperation and shoves another shirt into Potter's arms. _No, it's just you._

The next thirty minutes pass by fairly uneventfully. They throw out Potter's holey socks and T-shirts, despite his protests of "Hey, they're comfortable!" Out goes what Draco likes to call someday clothes — things that people cling to for the day when they finally lose enough weight. "No such thing," Draco says firmly, tossing a pair of tight black jeans. Next goes some of Potter's old Hogwarts clothes — robes, hats, cloaks and school uniforms.

"How many house scarves and ties do you need?" Draco asks, huffing as he places one Gryffindor tie and scarf in the keep pile for nostalgia's sake. "Unless you fancy tying up your partners in bed," he mutters, edging a sideways look at Potter.

Potter says nothing but goes bright red, half-lidded eyes flickering furtively towards Draco.

Last of the pile are the nine Weasley jumpers knitted by Molly Weasley as Christmas gifts. Draco raises an eyebrow at them, and Potter sprawls himself out on the floor, lying down on them. "Oh no. My first jumper that I got at eleven was my first meaningful Christmas present, so you’re not taking them away."

"Get up, you prat, you're behaving like you're eleven," Draco says, tugging on the hem of Potter's shirt.

"I can't bin them, Molly would be heartbroken," Potter protests, his chin jutting out in a sulk.

"Half of them can't even fit you!" Draco fixes him with a stern glare. "Have you actually worn one after Hogwarts?"

Potter deflates. "Uh. No." He frowns. "But that doesn't mean I don't care about them!"

"I'm firm, but not cold-hearted." Draco sighs. "Here's what I propose: you may keep the first one and the most recent one you got for Christmas last week." He regards the jumpers again. "And this one. It's different," he says, picking up the blue jumper with a picture of a Hungarian Horntail. _This colour complements his eyes._ "Everything else goes."

"Thank you for your kindness and generosity, oh great one," Potter deadpans, and Draco can't help but crack a smile.

Draco packs away the other jumpers into the bag. Potter looks mournfully at the two bags of clothes to be donated, while Draco retrieves a tiny folded box from his briefcase. He enlarges it, and then raises his wand at the messy pile of wanted clothes. He casts another spell — he's particularly proud of this one — that folds them into the box in a special way so that they're easy to see and retrieve.

The rest of the afternoon is a whirlwind of sorting paperwork and miscellaneous items. Draco learnt his lesson and summoned the thick binders and stacks of papers according to category. He leaves private and confidential things like Potter's Gringotts documents alone, but files his guitar tabs by alphabetical order and compiles requests for donations and fan mail that Potter neglected. Draco lifts up a lengthy and exuberant letter with burn marks at strategic spots. "Brought back too many memories," Potter offers brusquely, his expression closing up.

Draco sneers, his teeth clenching as they go through love letters and cards from Potter's exes. A nasty voice snarls within Draco, and this time, he listens to it. "Perhaps you would like to get rid of them?" he asks casually, keeping his jealousy in check. "Those people that Granger and Weasley set you up with... they weren't right for you."

Draco gleefully sets the entire pile on fire.

"Are you jealous, Malfoy?" Potter teases as they watch his past romances literally go up in smoke. Draco sniffs and insists otherwise, but they both know he's lying.

They clear Potter's old school things such as telescopes, cauldrons and tarnished brass scales, which remind Draco of Severus. He quickly compartmentalises the sudden surge of emotion. Draco tosses Potter's old broomsticks, much to his chagrin. "They were expensive!" Potter protests, to which Draco retorts, "Not a good enough reason. You only use your two new brooms now, anyway."

Draco tries another tactic when Potter refuses to budge. "Your old brooms would make some children very happy."

Potter bites his lower lip and relents.

They discard Potter's old cracked glasses with twisted frames, and Draco chortles when they stumble on a _Potter Stinks_ badge, the magic in it already long gone. "Did you expect that we'd be here, years into the future, laughing at this?" Potter asks thoughtfully, turning it over.

Their smiles fade as their gaze snags and holds, something promising and expectant pulsing in the air between them. Potter shifts forward, his eyes flickering towards Draco's lips. Draco's heartbeat ramps up, not believing they might—

_Bang! _They both jump when a strange black device jumps up from a box of garishly colourful items. It’s old and worn-out, coughing out a thin wisp of grey smoke. It totters on the ground in confused circles before collapsing. 

"Sorry. It's a Decoy Detonator that isn't working right. One of Fred's." Potter picks it up, training an unfocused gaze on it. "One of the things that reminds me of him." He looks up at Draco, the terse set of his lips broken with a quick smile that doesn't meet his eyes. He returns it to the box and fusses about in the box even though there's no need for that. "I went to his grave last week with George,” he remarks casually.

Draco doesn't say anything — not because he doesn't care, Merlin, he cares so _much_ — but because he doesn’t know how to approach it.

It's early evening when they wrap up the day's work. Draco sits up straight and yawns, stretching his arms and wincing when the knobs of his spine pop.

"How'd you feel?" Draco asks, sweeping his arm out to indicate the row of bulging bags leaning against the sofa.

Potter considers the question. "Lighter. Like there's more space, both outside and inside," he says, pressing a palm to his chest. He beams — a proper one that makes Draco's heart stop for a second before beating in double quick-time. _I helped in that. _A warm rush of embarrassing emotion wells up in Draco, so strong that he has to look away.

"You're welcome," Draco says.

"Will everything go to Hermione's charity? Is that how you dispose of your clients’ things?”

"If I have no instructions, then yes. Lacey at the charity would sort out everything, either sending them to thrift shops or as donations to other charities, and I get a small sum of money in return. If the client wants to store them in a warehouse, I also have recommendations."

"Let me guess," Potter says, pretending to think. "Places where you get a cut of the profits?"

Draco flashes him a winning smile. "Of course. I am doing business, after all." He whips out a glossy catalogue from his briefcase. "May I interest you in these products to keep your house neat?" Even though he knows Potter won't buy anything, Draco goes through the motions anyway, flipping through pages advertising sleek storage containers for organising things like clothes and cutlery.

Potter laughs. "Is this how you make more money?"

Draco gives a theatrical sigh. "Knew it wouldn't work on you."

Potter shrugs and says breezily, "I dunno, maybe what I want isn't in your catalogue." With that parting shot, he gathers their empty beer bottles and heads to the kitchen.

_What? _Draco blinks rapidly, his mind catching up with Potter's words. _Was he flirting? _He looks at Potter, who is poking his head into the fridge._ Never mind, the moment's gone now. _Draco shakes his head and rearranges the living room to its previous configuration.

"Up for a takeaway? There's a nearby place that does a brilliant _pad thai_," Potter suggests.

Draco hesitates, glancing at his watch. "I've got an appointment later."

"You still need to eat, yeah?" Potter cajoles. “Plus, I’ve got your favourite chocolate croissants from Magnolia. I passed by the shop this morning.”

Encouraged by his sweet tooth, Draco agrees. He licks his lips when Potter brings over a plate of croissants. They look absolutely exquisite — the pastry is flaky, with glossy, thick chocolate oozing out from the croissant. He takes a bite, closes his eyes and hums his approval, savouring the rich flavour of the chocolate and the buttery crunch of the croissant. Conscious, Draco passes a thumb over his lower lip, wiping away smears of leftover chocolate.

He glances at the guitars, and recalls the name of the Muggle guitar shop and school that Potter frequents so much. "If you like music so much, why don’t you quit the Ministry and work at Morgan’s? You’re practically teaching people there on some weekends anyway.”

Potter looks down at his croissant. "That's what Ron and Hermione say, but it's..." He shakes his head dismissively. "No. My job... it's comfortable. Stable." He licks a strip of sugar off his pastry. "And that's what I want right now." Despite his words, Potter looks pensive for a moment, before the grim line sealing his lips is replaced by a grin that's too bright and wide to be genuine. He grabs the phone to order their takeout, and Draco munches thoughtfully on his pastry.

Safe. Predictable. These are traits that Draco would never associate with Potter.

"Enough about me," Potter says after he hangs up. "What about you? You've always been really neat, so I'm not surprised at your choice of career."

Draco polishes off his croissant and rubs his fingers together, sprinkling sugar on his plate. "Yes, it's something niche, but this means I more or less have a monopoly on the market." He pulls his knees to his chest, wondering how much to reveal to Potter.

"Helping people sort their house out... it usually leads to a happier existence. When there are too many things bogging down one's surroundings, it clutters the mind." Draco tips his head and presses his cheek to his knees, gazing at the wooden grain of the table. "I find the most meaning in my work when my clients have a house full of items that spark joy. And maybe... maybe I'd like to help people this time round."

“Oh,” Potter says, looking away. 

"And I like telling people what to do with their lives," Draco adds in an effort to lighten the mood.

Potter chuckles. "Ah, there he is, there's the Malfoy I know." He licks off the chocolate on his finger. "How's your organising book coming along?"

"Almost three-quarters finished," Draco says. "I’m including all of the advanced charms used during my sessions, and it just might overtake _Practical Household Magic _as the top self-help and magical housekeeping book," he says proudly.

"What's the most difficult part of your job?"

Draco hesitates, uncertain about Potter’s reaction to his answer. "It’s when I clear the things of the deceased."

Potter frowns.

Luckily, Draco is saved from replying when the doorbell rings. Potter excuses himself to pick up the food.

Draco glances at Hagrid's photo album on the sofa and recalls Sirius Black's penknife in the kitchen. _This might be trickier than expected. _He'd underestimated the difficulty of this particular job and client — Grimmauld Place is humongous, with dark secrets and Potter’s own ghosts nestled within nooks and crannies, along with his pesky feelings for Potter getting in the way.

_It's never going to be easy when it comes to Potter. _It's something Draco has told himself dozens of times, but he simply can't bring himself to let go. He sighs heavily, curling a fist to rub at his eye. He's sure that Potter's worst memories will be unleashed when they reach the last stage of packing, but there's still a few more sessions to go, and that gives Draco some relief.

They'll cross that bridge when they come to it.

* * *

This could end really well or horribly, and Draco has a feeling it's going to be the latter.

He perches on a rickety chair at Potter's kitchen counter, nursing a cup of chamomile tea. Grey eyes track Potter as he finishes up the kitchen by checking expiry dates.

Two weeks have passed since their first tidying session, and Draco would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy their time together. As expected, Potter is a handful, but things progressed relatively smoothly once Draco made it clear that for once, they're working together for the same goal. They usually ended each session with a meal, and with every warm smile, soft whisper and heated gaze, Draco grows increasingly smitten for Potter.

"Oh, so that’s where it went!" Potter waves a crumpled bag of crisps in the air before putting it away. He straightens up and smacks his palms together as he regards the kitchen, satisfied. "We're finally finished, yeah?"

Draco wishes he could skip this last stage, collect his fee and call it a day. Maybe he'd wait for a few days before asking Potter out. But he knows, deep down, that he has to see this through.

Sirius Black’s penknife sits on the opposite end of the counter, its presence and significance wedged in the air like a third shadow.

It's time to put Potter's lingering ghosts to rest. 

"Not yet. The last step," Draco says. "Your sentimental things."

A ripple of annoyance, as sudden as quicksilver, flickers across Potter’s features. He frowns and avoids eye contact, his gaze darting from place to place. "No. We're done."

Sifting through sentimental attachments is the most emotionally taxing stage for both Draco and his clients — flotsam and jetsam of past relationships, old photographs of splintered families, bits and pieces that remind his clients of loved ones who are long gone. Such keepsakes are the most overwhelming and hardest to let go, re-opening old wounds that have merely been bandaged, not yet fully healed.

Yet Draco has never lost his temper or surrendered when his clients tearfully request an adjourning of the session. He usually leaves the room to grant them some breathing space, but he wouldn't postpone it. Instead, he’d sit with them as they stumbled down memory lane. If needed, he made them tea and listened with a patient and attentive ear as they reminisced about halcyon days of the past.

But the burdens that Potter bear are the heaviest out of all of his clients.

_Don't make me give up on you, Potter. _

Draco ignores Potter and goes to the living room, sitting in his usual position on the floor. Instead of launching into an explanation, he takes a leaf out of Potter's book and acts. In his mind's eye, he conjures snapshots of Potter's sentimental items — those that have come up in conversations with Hermione and Potter, along with those that he has seen in Grimmauld Place. He casts a summoning spell.

"No!" Potter cries out, hurrying to him.

A handful of things whizz towards Draco, emerging from Potter's bedroom. Draco repeats the spell, including more general items about the War and its heroes, because there must be more squirrelled away. Sure enough, other things materialise from other rooms.

"Stop it!" Potter snarls in mounting anger. He lunges towards Draco, giving him a hard shove and knocking his wand away. "How dare you—"

Draco elbows him out of the way and stares at the assortment of items splayed on the floor. There's Sirius Black's broken two-way mirror and his penknife, Potter's Invisibility Cloak, Hagrid's photo album, newspaper articles, letters and books about the late heroes of the war, a tarnished Golden Snitch with broken wings, a dented watch engraved with the name _Fabian Prewett_, an old notebook with scribbles and sketches in Potter's handwriting, and a scrap of blank parchment—

Potter snatches the parchment up, and out tumbles a familiar coin. Draco's insides feel as if they’ve been dunked in cold water at the sudden onslaught of memories. His shoulders curling inwards, he stares at the Galleon that's too bright to be genuine — the coin held by Dumbledore's Army, the inspiration behind Draco's means of communication with Madam Rosmerta in his plot to assassinate Albus Dumbledore—

Draco's face blanches, a shatter of guilt and a squirm of shock twisting his heart.

_Potter's not the only one with ghosts. _

Potter's back is turned towards Draco, and he’s scrambling here and there, gathering everything.

With tremendous effort, Draco looks away from the coin. His voice is a papery whisper before it spirals upwards in volume and intensity. "There's more, isn't it? They came from all over the house. You keep avoiding the issue, you never did—"

"Shut up," Potter yells, twisting round to glare at Draco. "This is private, you don't have the bloody right to do this!"

Draco should retreat, but memories of Potter being a recluse, taking time off work and messing about with his guitar all day when the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts looms; when a helpless Hermione confides in Draco about Potter’s grief when birthdays of the deceased approach, and those long hours spent at the graves of war victims—

Draco's hands go limp, sorrow and pity clouding his words. "Everywhere you go in your own home, you're reminded of them, of the war, of everyone that has left you. How can you move on—"

"I said _shut up_!" Potter shouts. Draco flinches when Potter grabs a cushion from the sofa and hurls it against the wall, his chest heaving and his fists clenching.

Potter has collected this simmering pain, longing and regret, bottled them up and buried them as he went on with the daily humdrums of life. "I don't want to forget, I never want to forget about them, so I have to remember them every day!" Potter’s voice wavers, his eyes hard and flinty. “Without their sacrifices, I wouldn't be here today, I wouldn't even be alive!" 

Draco lifts his chin and clenches his jaw at the anger crackling between them, holding Potter’s narrowed-eyed gaze. "But is your life right now worth living?"

The scornful words slip out before Draco can stop it, and he bites down on his lower lip.

Potter's eyes widen with hurt, his mouth falling open in shock. "Did you just... I can't believe..." He recovers, renewed fury sparking in his eyes. "What about you?" he rages, an ugly sneer twisting his lips. "You and your dirty little secrets in the Manor!"

Draco rears back, as if slapped by Potter.

"Sure, you’re all about minimalist bliss, cleansing your past and letting go. You're always so put-together," Potter's open hand slices through the air, gesturing to Draco's attire, "All neat, organised and so bloody proper, when your crumbling, abandoned Manor is still there. You might live in London now, and you can pretend everything's fine, but I’m not fooled. Are you ashamed of your own home, Malfoy? Ashamed by something that you were so proud of?”

Potter's words are like a volley of darts, puncturing Draco's weakening defences.

Draco is sucked into a maelstrom of memories about the Manor, images that he'd kept at bay for the past two years. After the war, Aurors dragged him from his Ministry holding cell to the Manor. Per their orders, he gave them access to every part of the Manor as they raided it for Dark artefacts. He could only watch as they took his terrified house elves away and plundered his ancestral home, turning it upside down and storming into rooms meant only for Malfoys. Draco trudged through the corridors, his head hanging, leftover horror and trauma dogging his footsteps because every corner reminded him of the Dark Lord’s torture.

The Manor used to be a home full of love and laughter, but now it sits, devoid of inhabitants; sad, dark and haunted, as gloomy and grim as Grimmauld Place used to be.

The Ministry eventually returned the deed to the Manor last year, but Draco has not been back.

A door slamming upstairs jolts Draco back to the present. He blinks and fumbles for his wand, his gaze falling on the Dumbledore's Army coin again.

Malfoy Manor is to Draco what all of these mementoes are to Potter.

Cornered, and still mired in his quicksand of memories, Draco lurches up to his feet. His eyes dart to the exit and he croaks out a flimsy excuse. "We'll continue this another day."

"Who's the one avoiding the issue now?" Potter bites out in a low and vicious whisper. His eyes sharpen in triumph, and a spiteful smirk hikes up a corner of his lips. 

The goodwill of the past few weeks evaporate like sunshine in a thunderstorm.

The years fall away, and it's as if they're back at Hogwarts again. Draco swallows a retort; he likes to think they've moved forward from that. He hauls himself up into an unsteady run, fleeing to the front door. With quivering hands, Draco pulls on his winter things, flinching when Potter yells, followed by the sound of something shattering against the wall.

"You know what, Malfoy? You can take your spark joy bullshit and piss off!" Potter hollers through the walls.

Draco hangs his head and presses a hand on the door, the coldness of the frosted glass seeping through his glove. A freezing wind gusts through the gaps of the door, and Draco stares out the glass, at the thick layer of snow blanketing everything outside, at the furious flurry of snow marring his view.

His heart drops like a boulder. He had hoped his feelings for Potter would fade with time, like pencil marks scribbled on love letters, but—

They've always had a knack for hurting each other in the worst possible way.

_That's why you'd never work out with Potter! Too much history and emotion, too much pain. Cut your losses and leave! _

He turns around and looks at Grimmauld Place, his breaths short and shallow, his nerves bristling with every second he remains in this stifling house. _There, on the staircase, is where Aunt Walburga would greet us when we came for her dreary parties. I'd be standing in between Father and Mother, dressed in my Sunday best— _

And then he's transported to the Malfoy family crypt, alone and curled up in a corner of the dusty and musty room, sobbing after burying his parents. He’ll never forget the horrible abandonment, his hands covering his face as he weeps, slow pressing despair surrounding him like a storm.

Draco spins on his heel and reaches for the doorknob. He stumbles out of Grimmauld Place, into the icy weather with the creeping cold haunting his every step. He closes the door behind him and trudges onwards, his boots sinking into the snow. He winds his scarf around the lower half of his face and bows his head, fists jammed into his pockets.

This time round, he doesn't bother with warming charms, hoping that the blizzard would be cold enough to numb his aching heart.

* * *

Draco hunches his back to shield the box cradled in his arms from the drizzle. With a gloved hand, he wipes away the pinpricks of rain that have sneaked past his water-repelling charm. He shifts from foot to foot on the worn front steps of Grimmauld Place, wondering if Potter is upset enough to let him stand outside in this weather.

Draco squints up at the charcoal sky and sighs at the weary grey clouds. In the horizon, lightning rattles the sky, and Draco flinches, steeling himself for the incoming clap of thunder. _At least it hasn't snowed today. _Thanks to Hermione, Draco knows Potter is home. He remembers her frown when she mentioned how reticent Potter has been for the past week, after their disastrous last session.

There's a faint thud on the door before it opens. Potter blinks at Draco, his gaze dropping to the box in his hands.

Draco clears his throat. "Good afternoon. I hope I'm not intruding. May I come in?"

"Sure.”

Draco enters Grimmauld Place. After hanging his outerwear on the rack, he follows Potter to the kitchen. Potter plops down on a chair at the counter. Looking at him now, Draco recalls his parting shot—

_"You can take your spark joy bullshit and piss off!"_

Perhaps Potter is reminded of that too, for he looks away and jumps up from his seat, mumbling something about chamomile tea. As he busies himself with preparing Draco's favourite tea, Draco sits down beside his vacated chair, setting his box on the middle of the table.

Potter brings over two mugs of tea, and Draco inclines his head in thanks. Potter drinks his beverage, the steam fogging up his glasses. Draco savours the comforting warmth trailing down his throat, chasing away the dreariness of winter. Draco glances at his box, and he swallows another mouthful of tea, bracing himself for a difficult conversation. He wraps his palms around his mug, relishing the radiating warmth. He takes a deep breath and puts his pride aside. "I would like to... apologise for my words that day."

Potter looks rather taken aback. He holds Draco's gaze for a moment, before ducking his head. He runs a fingertip along the rim of his mug and mumbles, "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have said all of that, especially about the Manor."

A pause. They share a quick, terse smile.

Despite their apologies, the tense atmosphere remains, going by the stiffness in Potter's shoulders and the unease churning in Draco’s stomach. The unasked question lingers between them — _so we're going to deal with the sentimental things today, then? _

Draco pulls his box towards him. "You told me your stories as we packed," he says. Even though his words are addressed to Potter, he only has eyes for the plain white box. He takes another deep, fortifying breath. "So, I thought it's only fair if I told you some of mine."

And then he lifts up the lid of the box, something he hasn't done in almost two years.

Draco isn't prepared for this towering, sweeping wave of nostalgia and loss. Even though it feels like a lifetime ago, he will never forget the suffocating pain and fury as he grieved for his loved ones; those who were dead, missing and those who fled the country, leaving him all alone—

But he'd survived, didn't he?

The ramrod tightness of Draco’s body slowly uncoils, and he begins to lay out each item from the box. This jumble of things means nothing to anyone else, but they mean the world to Draco. "I took these before I last left the Manor," he says. He doesn't look at Potter as he talks, not wanting to see the pity in his face. It's easier like this, as if Draco is spilling his memories to an empty room.

Mother's recipe for jammy dodgers goes first. Draco unfurls the delicate parchment, which is curling at the sides and yellowed with age. At the sight of Mother's handwriting, he's reminded of her letters when he was at Hogwarts, accompanied by a basket of her home-made jammy dodgers. "Yes, she was the Lady of the Manor with our army of house elves, but she always baked these herself because they were my favourite. When I was young, these biscuits would be enough to lure me out of the library."

The scrumptious scent of jam and biscuits would waft up to the library from the kitchens, and Draco would come scampering down the grand staircase, book of the week forgotten. He smiles wistfully. "I'd give anything to smell that again."

Potter remains silent, and Draco is grateful for that. His words emerge easier now, as if some sort of dam has broken, releasing suppressed memories. He places the recipe back in the box and picks up his family ring, always worn by his father.

"The Malfoy ring, inherited from centuries of generations." Draco runs a thumb over the ornate family crest and reptilian creatures carved on it. "There's a ceremony that every Malfoy heir experiences at eighteen, when his father would officially pass down heirlooms like this, along with a formal letter detailing the heir’s responsibilities." His lips pull up in a bland smile devoid of mirth. "A pity my father wasn't alive for my eighteenth birthday."

Draco replaces the ring. Next is Pansy's notebook. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, because shit, this one _hurts_. A memory of his best friend, lying in a muddy ditch in dodgy Muggle London, her lifeless eyes reflecting the stars, bubbles to the surface.

For months after that, every time Draco closed his eyes, he'd see that haunting image of her.

He rubs the heel of his palm against his chest, sighing. "This notebook…” he says, thumbing through it. "When classes got too boring, Pansy and I would write in it and pass it back and forth. We wrote all sorts of things. Short stories, complaints, musings... anything and everything." Draco lands on a random page with Pansy's handwriting, _"I want to be a Healer when I grow up!_" And then his reply below, _"No, since you gossip so much, you should work at the _Prophet_!" _

The last item is a photograph of the Slytherins outside Honeydukes during their third year. Draco's at the front, flanked by Vince and Greg. Pansy, Millicent, Theo and Blaise are grinning and waving their bags of sweets in the air. Grey eyes linger on Pansy's smile, and if Draco concentrates hard enough, he can almost hear her laughter.

"I've lost all of them except for Millicent. Half are dead, while the others have fled Europe," Draco whispers. As he packs away his keepsakes in the box, he collects his messy emotions and stows them under the trapdoor of his heart.

Only then does he meet Potter's wide-eyed gaze. Potter's eyes flicker to the box, and then back to Draco. They don't say anything for a long moment, which isn't a bad thing. Draco hates empty platitudes.

Instead of words, Potter simply reaches over and covers Draco's hand with his own.

And right there, in that loaded touch, Draco knows exactly what Potter wants to say.

Draco blinks slowly and returns the gesture with a light squeeze.

He gestures to the box with an unsteady hand. "They don't spark joy. Certainly not. Instead, they make me sad, bittersweet. They remind me of the love I've lost. Should I throw them out?" He shakes his head, his words increasing in certainty. "No. Of course not. I salvaged these from the..." Draco's breath hitches. "The Manor, because they mean the most. Each item reminds me of the best of them. I remember them as my friend, my family, not by their faults, not how they were vilified by the media and immortalised in textbooks as war villains."

Unable to contain himself, Draco opens the box again, gazing at each item. "I don't remember my mother as Narcissa Malfoy, the snooty, uptight wife of a prominent Death Eater. I remember her biscuits, how she spent a lifetime putting my needs before hers. I don't remember my father as the power-hungry megalomaniac, as the Dark Lord's right-hand man on his best days." Draco shrugs. "I harbour no delusions about him, but I choose to remember him as the father who raised me, taught me Quidditch and how to read and write. I remember his love for me; something gentle and subtle, but always there.

"I used to wear the Malfoy ring, but I stopped, as I no longer want to lord my heritage over others. The ring reminds me how far I've come from my fall from grace and how far I have to go. I don't remember Pansy as the ‘traitor’ who tried to surrender you, nor do I dwell on her wrongdoings during the war. I remember her as my best friend, the brilliant writer who could conjure all sorts of stories during boring classes."

Draco closes the box, his jaw set. "I've shared my stories."

Unspoken words hang in the air.

_What about yours? _

Potter’s half-smile wavers. He raises a hand and opens his mouth to say something, but presses his lips together in a grimace instead. Draco remains still, his gaze fixed on Potter, grey eyes impassive and unmoving. Potter sucks in a sharp breath and releases it slowly, painfully.

His shoulders slumping, Potter gets up and goes to the living room. Draco follows him, and they sit on the floor near the coffee table. Potter pulls out his wand, gulping audibly. He closes his eyes, squares his shoulders and casts a summoning spell.

Draco recognises some of the things from the previous session. A thick and leather-bound tome — _A History of the Second Wizarding War: Our Heroes _— thumps on the table. There's a particular page that is crumpled and torn at the edges, as if someone tried to yank it out. Draco flips to it, which is a cover page of a chapter dedicated to Potter. His name is in large and curling script, along with a picture that Draco assumes is of Potter.

He can’t be sure because someone disfigured the picture with a black marker. 

"It's the History of Magic textbook for Hogwarts seventh years," Potter says with a wintry smile. "I hate how they described me."

_Ah. _Draco closes the book and puts it aside. He looks at the assortment of items. "You don't have to tell me every detail."

"I don't plan to," Potter mumbles, his voice holding no bite. His lips are still curved in that faint ghost of a smile, but his eyes are vacant. He picks up the blank scrap of parchment that Draco saw previously. "It’s a map. It reminds me of Fred and George, because they gave it to me. And it reminds me of Remus, Sirius and my father. Of their friendship." He unfolds the parchment, running a fingertip along the edge. "Like my friendship with Ron and Hermione," he adds, his smile turning affectionate.

"And this notebook.” Potter turns his attention to a slim and tattered notebook. He skims through its crinkling pages, hiding its contents from Draco, although he spots a sketch of a diadem. "I carried it everywhere when I was on the run. It has Hermione's notes, our conjectures about the next Hor-" Potter stops short, glancing at Draco, and then at his left arm, where his Dark Mark is.

Draco tenses.

"It helped me kill Voldemort," Potter concludes. Next, he picks up the dull Golden Snitch, lifting it up to the light. One of its wings flutter weakly. "My first Snitch. Won it at the match against you, in fact. Dumbledore-" Potter's voice cracks, and he swallows. "Dumbledore bequeathed it to me, and what was inside helped me win the war." He puts the Snitch down. "I still remember the twinkle in his blue eyes, how he stroked his beard. He had many secrets, yes, numerous plans that he hid from me, but after all that's said and done, he meant a lot to me."

Potter pulls another book towards him — a spell-book with instructions on the Patronus Charm. "Remus's book. He taught me the spell, gave me a special test to get this book." Potter's gaze is focused on the middle distance, his eyes faraway and voice small and sad, as if lost in his own world. "There was a secret passageway accessed from Binns's classroom. Remus placed this book in a chest with a Boggart, which he knew would turn into a Dementor for me."

Potter smiles, shaking his head and smacking the book on his palm. "Took me three tries to get it. He gave me chocolate afterwards." He opens the book, revealing a folded and clean chocolate wrapper flattened between the pages. "The last one he ever gave me.” Potter's smile dims. "It's getting harder and harder to summon my Patronus now."

Potter holds up a painting. Draco frowns and tilts his head, trying to make sense of it. It looks vaguely like Potter, but…

"Dobby painted this. It's supposed to be me, but…" Potter peters off, gesturing limply to the mop of black hair that looks like a large bird's nest. His grip tightens on the frame, so hard that his knuckles turn white. "You were there when Bellatrix killed him. For once, Hermione couldn’t solve it, so I… I buried him near Shell Cottage. Dug his grave myself."

A long moment passes before Potter allows himself to speak again.

"My mum's letter to Sirius," Potter whispers, caressing a wrinkled piece of parchment. "She wrote about me, after my first birthday. Thanked him for his present." He pulls up a ragged smile. He traces her words on the paper, over the loops of her '_g'_s and the curves of her '_s'_s. "There's even a photo." He shows Draco half of a photo. It's a picture of a burbling Potter gleefully zooming along on a toy broomstick, narrowly missing a vase while an older man, the spitting image of Potter, chases him with frantic, outstretched arms.

Draco's heart twinges at what Potter used to have.

"She said I'd be a brilliant Quidditch player." Potter takes back the photo. "I wish... I wish they could've seen me play," he adds, his voice going all jerky and brittle. “I think they’d be proud, yeah?” He spares the photograph one last disconsolate glance before placing it on the table.

"I can't do this, Malfoy. I bloody can’t," Potter chokes out abruptly, slanting his body away from his mementoes. "How can I choose what to keep and throw, when everything is so precious? They left me behind, and I'll never hear their voice, see their smiles, feel their touch—" 

"Potter—"

"They're all _gone! _I don't want to remember them like how the history books portray them. They're more than that, so much more than that!" Potter yells, getting up on his knees and grabbing the History of Magic textbook. Agitated, he growls and hurls it at the sofa. "What if I forget about them, Malfoy, what if I _forget_—" 

"Potter, you absolute _arse_!" Draco shouts. "Think about what you’re saying. How can you forget about your parents? About Dumbledore, about all of them? You'd remember them for as long as you live, and you know that!"

Potter stares at him, but before he can retort, Draco powers on. "Do you remember what I said when we were tidying your clothes? When we threw away your first Quidditch jersey that no longer fits you?"

Potter’s jaw clenches, and he nods.

"These things give you a sense of security, because they remind you of emotionally significant memories. Yes, we threw the jersey away, but you'd never forget your love for flying, your first Snitch, your first win.” Draco’s voice softens. “You still fly with us, don't you?"

He places his palms on Potter's shoulders, dipping his head to force Potter to meet his gaze. "Harry," he whispers, using his first name because this is so very important_. _"We never forget those we love, even if they are no longer with us. They're still near us, every single day. Your pain, your scars that you thought were healed over… but with every memory, they open again. These scars tell you you've been hurt, but yet you continue to love, to survive."

Draco looks at the lightning-bolt scar on Potter’s forehead, the mark that has defined his life's trajectory. Draco turns his arm, revealing his faded Dark Mark. "I've made many mistakes. Mistakes that filled me with regret and guilt, but they're my mistakes. They shaped me, moulded me into who I am today." Draco traces a fingertip over the slithering snake of his Mark. "My mother couldn't stop crying on the night I took my Mark."

Draco's throat closes up; it's suddenly difficult to speak over the lump in his throat. He recalls something that Potter told him. "They're always with us, loving us from afar, looking out for us. Like that night in the Forest, when you met your parents, Sirius Black and Lupin."

A visible shudder ripples through Potter. His eyes are midnight with sadness, a tell-tale tremor in his voice. "Sirius... he said something like that before. About us not forgetting." He sucks in a shaky breath. "The ones who love us... they don't really leave us, that we can always find them..." He slowly raises a hand, pressing his palm to his heart. "In here."

Potter closes his eyes, a single tear falling down his cheek.

"It hurts, Draco. I thought it'd get better, but it still hurts so much."

Draco’s heart aches, and he’d give anything to take Potter in his arms and soothe his pain.

"Things that spark joy…” Draco murmurs, his words soft and gentle. “The things that remind you of them don't have to be physical because they live in you. With every Patronus spell you cast, it reminds you of Lupin. You have your mother’s eyes, and her love in your blood. You've inherited your father's hair and looks, like how I resemble mine. And Sirius Black..." Draco looks around them. "He gave you this house and your love of music.”

Green eyes, shining with unshed tears, peer up at Draco.

“Keep the essentials, like your mother's letter, but pack them away so the grief and loneliness doesn't take over your life,” Draco says. “Don't leave them lying around, sucking you into a spiral of misery each time you look at them." His voice drops to a murmur. "The past is a good place to visit, but not to stay."

An undignified sob breaks forth from Potter's lips.

"Let go, Harry," Draco whispers. "Their lives have ended, but yours hasn’t. Remember the dead by doing what they cannot anymore — live, and be happy."

A client told Draco this last year, when she wondered out loud why he was on the verge of tears. She initially didn't know it was Pansy's birthday, and he visited her grave shortly before meeting his client.

Draco will always remember those words. 

He's reminded of Mother tucking him in bed as a child, the warmth of her touch and the love in her eyes as she stroked his hair and tugged the covers up to his chin. _"I just want you to be happy, Draco. Never forget that."_

Draco’s throat thickens with emotion.

Potter musters a weak, tearful smile. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead, his face crumples, his shoulders shaking as he covers his face with his hands and dissolves into harsh sobs.

Draco watches, his heart splintering, as Potter’s defences crumble and he falls apart.

This calls for a moment of privacy. "I'll get you some tea," Draco says, patting Potter on the knee and retreating. He brews a mug of Earl Grey, with two sugars and a splash of milk; that’s how Potter likes it. The domesticity of the scene strikes Draco — him puttering about Potter's cosy kitchen on a Friday afternoon, the warmth of the house and the soft pitter-patter of rain on the windows. As the tea steeps, Potter wipes his eyes and blows his nose as he looks through his keepsakes.

Draco pours Potter's tea in his favourite Gryffindor mug. Even though the tea is ready, he waits until Potter has pulled himself together before re-joining him.

Potter vanishes the balls of discarded tissue paper and lifts red-rimmed eyes to Draco. A beat of silence passes as Potter sips on his tea. He lowers his mug. "When did you become so... emotionally mature?" he asks, voice thick with leftover tears.

The question is unexpected, and it takes a while for Draco to marshal his thoughts after getting over the surprise of Potter calling him emotionally mature. "I learnt some things along the way as I tidied people's homes. They tell me stories, new perspectives. Behind every sentimental item lies a story. Most of them I forget, but some... some I remember." Like a breath of fresh air amidst the monotony of clearing clothes and books, there was a time when a grandmother talked fondly about her late husband, and another occasion when a Muggle lady reminisced about her son who passed away in the military.

"I still have Ron and Hermione, yeah?" Potter says, looking at a photograph of his friends in Hagrid's album. The sorrow in his eyes melts away, and something in his demeanour softens. "Friends that care about me, almost died for me." He runs a hand through his hair. "It's just that..." He sighs. "I dunno, thinking like this makes me feel so bloody selfish. They're getting married. They'll start a family, and…" He trails off, eyes downcast. "And I'll be alone."

Draco wishes he was brave enough to wear his heart on his sleeve like Potter. He’s the sort to dip his toe into the water before jumping in. _Be brave, Draco, just for once. Be brave. _

He takes the dive.

"Potter, you..." Draco mutters, his voice low and uncertain. He eases the mug from Potter's hands and places it on the table. He inches closer to Potter, who looks surprised. And then he says the words that he wished someone would have said to him years ago—

"You don't have to be alone," Draco whispers, his gaze flickering to Potter's lips. Potter's breath hitches, but he doesn't move away, and that's all Draco needs to know.

Before he can lose his nerve, Draco closes his eyes and leans forward, pressing his lips onto Potter's. It's only a brief touch, granting Potter space if he wishes to pull away. Potter’s lips part, and taking that as encouragement, Draco tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the cupid's bow of Potter's upper lip.

Draco's heart soars when Potter not only kisses back, but runs his fingertips lightly along Draco’s jawline. _Oh, I'm kissing him, I'm actually kissing Harry. _Desire circulates in Draco’s body like a drug, and he feels bubbly and light, as if someone uncorked a champagne bottle in his chest. Part of him can’t believe it, but the taste of tea on Potter's tongue, the texture of the carpet under Draco's hands and the slightly chapped feeling of Potter's lips against his own...

Draco's eyes flutter open when Potter rises up on his knees, grabs Draco's shoulders and shoves him against the coffee table. He cups Draco's face, his eyes dark with desire. "You're always so prim and proper," Potter says in a hoarse growl. He slides his hands from Draco's cheeks down to his hips, fingers toying with Draco’s belt loops. Heat flares in green eyes. "I wanna mess you up."

With lust thundering through his system and his nerve endings singing with every touch, Draco lets him.

He lets Potter kiss him roughly, all teeth and tongue. Draco lets him yank out the ends of his shirt and skim his palms on Draco's chest. He lets Potter leave love bites all over his neck and run his fingers through blond hair until Draco is sure his hair is as rumpled as Potter's. The kiss is all jagged breaths, small nips and wandering hands, and it’s all that Draco’s ever dreamt of.

Eventually, they pull apart, and Potter looks bloody brilliant — hair even messier, lips kiss-swollen and pupils dilated, his chest heaving and part of his jumper tugged off his shoulder.

Draco probably looks equally wrecked.

_They'd never work out. _That was what Draco thought; their personalities were too clashing, too headstrong with a history of setting each other off like fireworks. But it is only now, after their first kiss, when Draco understands that they can use this passion, this current of simmering heat to build a relationship as expressive and intense as their past rivalry.

"Wow," Potter says, breathless. He scoots closer to Draco, the sides of their thighs pressing together. He gives Draco a shy smile, and Draco’s stomach flutters.

He doesn't know why Potter would fancy someone like him, or when it all started and everything in between, but he doesn't need to know now. They have so much time to talk later, of lingering kisses and soft whispers that will turn into longing touches and murmured secrets. 

Unlike how things used to be, all they have is time.

They share a silly grin before looking at the things scattered on the table. They spend the rest of the day tidying Potter's sentimental items. _Pad thai_ and tea accompany the drying out of emotions and unboxing of Potter's tumultuous past. They toss out things like newspaper clippings, textbooks, Lupin's spell-book and chocolate wrapper. Sometimes Potter explains the stories behind each item, sometimes he doesn't.

It stops raining sometime in the afternoon.

Together, they pack the remaining items in a plain cardboard box, and Potter tapes it closed. They climb the staircase leading to Sirius Black's room, a place that Potter rarely frequents. Potter opens an empty cupboard and places the box inside. He takes a long, hard look at it before sealing the cupboard with a spell.

Letting go of Potter's past isn't as simple as placing a box in a cupboard, but it's a step in the right direction.

After they're finished, Potter goes to the window and glances at Draco. Potter hesitates for a heartbeat, before extending his arm and wiping the condensation from the window with the end of his sleeve.

Outside, the sun is setting after the storm, painting the sky in deepening swathes of orange and pink. The sun's rays peek out from thick, fluffy clouds, like how a small, timid child would peer out with wide-eyed wonder at a brand-new world.

* * *

Draco folds his arms and leans against the doorjamb of the kitchen in Grimmauld Place, drinking in the sight of Potter, his hair still damp from his shower. He’s hunched over the counter and scribbling on some parchment.

Potter looks up, grinning when their eyes meet.

Draco would tease him about it, but he's sure he has an equally sappy smile on his own face.

"I like it when you wear my clothes," Potter says, gesturing to Draco in his Weasley jumper with the Hungarian Horntail. "Especially when you take a nap in them."

Draco pushes off the doorjamb and makes his way to Potter. He bends down to give him a hug from the back, resting his chin on the crown of Potter's head. He inhales the minty scent of Potter's shampoo, his smile widening when Potter leans back, nuzzling into his arms.

"Well, I did stay the night, didn't I?" Draco drawls, his smirk matching Potter's suggestive grin at the memory of rustled bedsheets, shuddering gasps and mounting pleasure. He looks at the papers sprawled in front of Potter — names and addresses of music schools.

"Care to tell me what this is about?" Draco asks, even though he already has an idea.

"Soon," Potter says. He looks at the clock, and starts to gather his paperwork. "We have to leave soon; the Leaky is always crowded on Saturday evenings."

"Alright.” Draco heads back to Potter's bedroom. He picks up his clothes from yesterday, casts a cleaning and de-wrinkling charm on them and puts them on. He waits for Potter in the living room and scans Grimmauld Place, which looks so much brighter and cosier compared to the first tidying session roughly three months ago.

Potter enlarged the windows to allow more natural light to enter. He took down the thick and dark velvet curtains that accumulated dust, replacing them with white sheer curtains. The flowerpots dotting the windowsill contribute splashes of colour, brightening the atmosphere. The kitchen remains relatively unchanged, although Potter gave in and bought one of Draco's organising cabinets. 

As far as Draco knows, the box in Sirius Black's cupboard still remains sealed in the dark.

Potter hurries down the staircase, holding a faded Gryffindor scarf. He glances out the window, and then tosses the scarf on the sofa. "C'mon," he says. They exit the house, and Draco gazes at the sunset. It hasn’t snowed in a while, and it’s not raining as often. 

Winter is finally ending.

Most of the group is already in their usual booth at the Leaky. When they're settled with their drinks, Finnigan looks at Draco and Potter. "Heard Malfoy's been working with you on Grimmauld. How is it?" he asks Potter.

"Yeah, we finished it about a month ago. He taught me how to keep things that spark joy close to me, and... er," Potter trails off, slanting a sideways look at Draco before clearing his throat rather awkwardly.

_Oh no, he wouldn’t—_

"Potter," Draco mutters, not in warning, but in disbelief.

Potter grabs his hand under the table. "So, I'm gonna keep him close to me from now on," he finishes, the uncertainty of his shifting eyes giving way to a mischievous spark of a smile when he looks at Draco’s heated cheeks.

The group erupts into a chorus of cheers and groans at the absolute cheesiness of Potter's line.

Millicent gives Draco a thumbs-up, while Weasley releases a mournful bellow, even though he must have known about their relationship from Hermione or Potter himself. "Bloody hell, now he's not only friends with my fiancée, he's going out with my best mate!"

"At least it's not the other way around!" Finnigan croons before waving madly for Tom's attention. "Another round for us! Harry’s treating!"

Amidst the cacophony, Potter kisses the back of Draco's hand, and Draco bites his lower lip to stop his smile from spreading. "You spark joy," Potter whispers, his words pitched low enough so that it's only for their ears. Speechless, Draco responds with a giddy smile, a symphony of happiness playing in his heart.

It's halfway into the night when Hermione catches Draco's eye and indicates the bartender’s counter. They head there to get the next round. After they place their orders, they linger at the bar, observing the raucous group from a distance.

"Well, no ‘thank you’?" Hermione asks, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Draco raises his eyebrows. "I haven't sent you or Potter the bill for my services at Grimmauld," he points out, even though they both know that he will do no such thing. A fresh pint of elf-made wine slides across the counter, and he takes a sip. "How often did he talk about me before we got together?"

_You must've known he fancies me, that’s why you mentioned tidying his home. _Draco isn’t surprised at Hermione's sneakiness in killing two birds with one stone — her attempt at matchmaking and sorting out Grimmauld.

Hermione laughs. "Rather a lot for someone who insisted that you were _just friends_. He was wondering why you didn't react to his flirting—"

Draco tears his gaze from Potter, who is arm-wrestling Weasley. He turns startled eyes on Hermione. "Flirting? When did he flirt with me?"

"During pub nights, after he got some alcohol in his system. He talked about your hair, your clothes, asked you about your plans for the weekend..." she says expectantly, trailing off at Draco's incredulous expression. "You didn't get it? I thought you were playing hard-to-get."

"That was flirting?!"

Hermione winces in sympathy. "Yes, he's rather hopeless at it. Why did you think Ron and I had to set him up?" She looks at the group again. "But everything worked out, didn't it?" she says, contented.

Draco snickers at the sight of a laughing Potter who is high-fiving everyone, while Weasley is slumped over the table, no doubt grumbling about his loss. Draco’s expression softens, his eyes turning bright and glossy.

"Yeah. It did."

* * *

The Manor is like he remembers it.

Draco shuffles forward, the soles of his loafers crunching on the gravel. Malfoy Manor stands — as lofty and imposing as ever — but an atmosphere of sorrow and neglect weighs it down. This aura emanating from it can’t be due to Dark Magic — the Aurors have scoured every nook and cranny.

No, the Manor is simply lonely. 

Behind him, Harry coughs, recovering from the Portkey. Draco stands, motionless and silent as he regards the towering Manor against the backdrop of the azure morning sky, complete with clear white clouds that remind him of cotton candy. There are no birds painting graceful arcs in the sky, no insects flitting from flower to flower in the gardens. The majestic marble fountains which line the driveway usually burble and sing, but are now still and quiet, except for the occasional ripple of water.

It's as if the house is holding its breath, just like Draco.

Draco spots mould growing in between the cracks of the fountains. Just like the rest of the estate, they have fallen into disrepair.

A rising guilt begins to creep into Draco.

He lifts his chin, looking at the windows with their velvet curtains. He half expects the curtains to rustle and Mother to peer out, her face breaking into a smile every time Draco returned home.

_But she can’t be there, Father too, because they're gone, all gone—_

Draco takes a step backwards.

"Draco," Harry murmurs, placing a hand on the small of Draco's back. That soft, deep voice, along with his touch, is enough to bring Draco back to the present. Harry plucks at the top of his T-shirt in unease — this can't be easy for him, either — but he indicates the Manor with his chin encouragingly.

Draco stands rooted to the ground for a moment, before they move down the long driveway, Harry’s presence giving him strength.

_"Let me do for you what you did for me,_" Harry offered late one night when they were in bed and tangled in each other's arms, his lips pressing blooming kisses on Draco's fingertips.

Draco knew what he meant at once.

The Manor gates melt away like smoke, welcoming him home. Magic stirs deep down in the marrow of his bones, right in his magical core. How many times had he done this, coming home, especially from Hogwarts? A young Draco would beam at the sight of Mother waiting for him with open arms. He'd drop his bags and dash towards her, dodging the strutting peacocks and leaving Father behind. Father would chuckle and pick up his bags after him.

Those memories are so vivid, so bright, so... _bittersweet_.

Yes, the house is haunted with its fair share of ghosts. Like that patch of field over there, for example. Yes, the Dark Lord liked to torture Muggles there, but that was also where Draco's parents taught him how to fly. There, at the front doors, was where Draco would panic whenever Death Eaters assembled at the Manor, but that was also where a young and eager Draco would be buzzing with excitement, because that was where Mother received her guests at her fancy garden parties. Draco always enjoyed the festivities, zipping around and nicking fancy treats from the waiters and relishing the attention showered on him whenever his proud parents introduced him to the other socialites.

With every horrifying memory of the Dark Lord defiling Draco's ancestral home, Draco can think of two joyful ones.

_I'm home, I'm finally home. _

Harry treads alongside him. Suddenly, Draco is reminded of Mother's jammy dodgers, and he stops walking for a moment, closing his eyes to swallow the lump in his throat and pull himself together.

_I have to visit my parents at the crypt. _

A strange homesickness thrums inside Draco, tearing apart within him like a new emotion.

When he opens his eyes, the Manor seems a little brighter.

They stop a distance away from the main doors, and Draco turns to the gardens. Even though they have been abandoned and the overgrown shrubs and small trees are in need of a good trimming, the flowers are still breathtakingly beautiful, thanks to the imbued magic buried into the earth itself. Blooming spots of colour — yellow, red, white and powder-blue flowers dot the fields, and Draco smiles at the view. Despite the gardens being fully capable of taking care of themselves, Mother always liked to putter about in her gardening clothes and large sun hat, while a young Draco would toddle behind her, assisting with small tasks like planting seeds and watering flowers.

The Manor's gardens have always been beautiful this time of the year.

Compared to his last visit, Draco is at a much better place now. He has a stable career, and his new book about tidying is at its final stage of editing — in fact, he was busy selecting the cover of the book with Harry's help yesterday. Harry, meanwhile, quit his job of drudgery at the Department of Magical Transportation and is working at Morgan’s, where he teaches guitar and goes for jamming sessions. He wrote his first song last week, and Draco loves how excited and alive he was when he played it for Draco. On top of all of that, they also have Hermione and Weasley's wedding to look forward to.

Draco impulsively grabs Harry's hand and squeezes it, feeling a rush of gratitude and affection so intense that it takes his breath away. 

After the dreariness of a winter bristling with grief and loss, lies a long and winding path of new beginnings and fresh starts; a chapter full of promise and hope. Draco's heart lifts like a summer cloud at the thought.

Spring is finally here.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated with much love to my rabbit, who passed away in July 2019. The title comes from the song "Spring Day" by BTS, a beautifully poignant song which I had on repeat while working on this. I write this as I sit, feeling lost, worried and insecure in real life. Yet I take comfort in the fact that every winter of loss and sadness, no matter how cold and biting, will pass, eventually giving rise to a hopeful spring. If you need comfort, I hope that reading this would have given you a ray of hope (just like how writing this did for me), and I wish, in my heart of hearts, that your spring day will be just around the corner.
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please support the author by clicking on the kudos button and leaving a comment below! ♥


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